Flying
by Schuyler Lola
Summary: Good girls don't sit outside, alone, in the middle of the night. But she doesn't care. Oneshot, tag to Human Error.


**Disclaimer:** Don't own House. But I'll give them back when I'm done, 'kay?

My first dabble in the House fandom. Cheers!

It's taken me nearly all summer, but finally, I've come up with the tag I wanted to add to Human Error. And since everyone's done it already, I'll just add to the problem…

Feedback is appreciated. Enjoy.

Flying

She twists a lock of hair around her finger, holding it out, letting it fall, playing with the loose hairs left behind. She's light now, free, no responsibility –and it's comforting, all of this…space.

She's always been goal-oriented, driving to the station, getting there on time and embarking on another journey. Maybe she should float for a while. That might be nice. She's always been too responsible, too – maybe it's time to let go. It'd be nice to let go, just a short time.

It's refreshing, she thinks, ignoring the aching worry that she carries. She's free. Liberty makes her happy.

And it doesn't at the same time.

She's always known where she's going, what she's going to do. She's driven. She makes lists. She's practical. Now…she's not? She has no job. She quit her job on a whim. Who does that, anyway? Just…decide to stop, because they didn't want to be alone or something?

Apparently, she does.

Apparently, she's this person now – flighty, irresponsible, impractical…she's become the anti-Cameron. The girl she doesn't know and wouldn't recognize. The girl she avoided in high school. She holds out her hand. Same hand, same fingernails, different girl.

She's a good girl. It's how she identifies herself, how she relates to the world around her. She does what she's told. She walks the path, never strays, never bends to pick up a shiny rock. Suddenly, she's out in the field, lying among the flowers, wondering why she's here.

Cameron doesn't think she's a good girl anymore.

Because good girls don't quit their jobs for no reason.

* * *

She's been unravelling all year. Maybe before that.

She'd never done meth before that night. Perhaps that started her spiral from grace. She slept with Chase, while she was high, while she may have been HIV-positive. What was she thinking, getting high? She's not that person.

Yeah, she's attracted to Chase, but she likely didn't need to get high to sleep with him.

As proven later…which brings her to her next point:

She had a casual relationship with a colleague, even going so far to sleep with him at the hospital?

That one she really doesn't get.

Disapproval screams in her ears, her own, her old friends', her mother's. She's a good girl.

Yeah, but good girls don't have sex in a sleep room, when they're supposed to be working.

She can see her mother cringe.

* * *

She's the golden girl of the family. She's been fawned over, and praised, and held up as an example.

Cameron thinks her siblings probably hated her when they were kids. Quiet, athletic-minded Jeff and artsy, introspective Natalie. She's the middle of the trio, but she is the favourite. She's a doctor.

She's a mess.

She's thinking that maybe it isn't fair. She's not that great. She got the grades. She did her chores. But she's the failure, in the end, isn't she? She's a doctor with no job, and basically nothing else. She's the sad, lonely one of her happy family. She's the one who they whisper about at family reunions.

Not that she's been to any since she realized they do talk about her there.

Good girls don't become the black sheep in a family of joy.

* * *

She stands up, running her hand through the full weight of her hair, shaking it out. She likes her hair. She's always liked her hair. It's the one thing that she relies on to keep her looking good. It's why she keeps it so long.

Nervous habit. She plays with her hair when she's nervous. She chews her lip when she's nervous.

She's a horrible poker player.

Cameron's got no reason to be nervous – she's fine. Chase shifts a few feet away, and she jumps, clasping her hands together. She's a high-strung creature. Movement scares her, when she feels like she shouldn't be doing something. She's being watched.

She's paranoid. Chase is asleep, she has no freaky cats to stare at her in the middle of the night. She's alone, in the dark.

She likes the dark, better than the light. She can hide herself here, and gather her thoughts. Rein them in, keep them from running off without her.

Maybe she needs those running thoughts. Keeping herself tied together is what inspired her straight line kind of life.

Good girls don't need to hide themselves in the dark. They have nothing to hide.

* * *

She reaches for her coat. It's late spring now – warm; just the perfect temperature, but it's night. She feels the chill creep up her spine, raising the fine hairs. She's cold. For a moment, she regrets getting up out of bed – listening to her crazy urges – and falters at the touch of the cloth. She step back, and stares at the hook. It's not her coat. It's Chase's. The coat brings her a smile. She rubs the material between her fingers, clutching at it. She takes complete hold of the jacket and pulls it on. She drowns in it.

She tiptoes back to the bedroom, in search of shoes. She finds a pair of sneakers – hers; they look like hell, and she slips them over her bare feet anyway. She leaves the laces in a twisty knot, and slides back along the floor. She cringes at the slight click of her sneakers.

Chase rolls over again, his arm reaching out to her empty spot. She creeps back and traces her finger along his arm. She missed him, during their Tuesday phase.

She's stubborn, too.

She watches his chest move in and out, treasuring each breath.

Good girls may not do the things she did, but they too, can try to make things right.

* * *

She wraps Chase's coat around her body, hugging herself. The air bites at her nose, and she can see the tip turning red on her. She pushes the strands of hair out of her face, the ones that keep blowing with the wind.

Tilting her head to the sky, she admires the stars, the moon, and the deep, deep blue. She loves the night.

She hears a bird squawk, and swoop in front of her, diving for the sidewalk, before making the ascent back up. It flies around the street, over the buildings, and her, the lone person outside.

She's not a good girl, not really. Good girls don't go outside, alone, in the middle of the night. She no longer cares about being a good girl.

She sighs. Leaving Princeton-Plainsboro was right, she thinks, sitting on the front step.

Because she's flying, too.


End file.
